Helheim's kitchen
by Tmaster123
Summary: Vigilante AU/Modern AU: Haunted by his past and the death of his mentor, Hiccup decides to step in where the justice system is flawed and take matters into his own hands. But how will he fare after being thrust into a world crammed full of pompous superheroes and vaguely familiar villains?
1. Prologue

**_Prologue: LEX TALIONIS_**

The morning was cold, _too_ cold – even for a country as far north of the equator as Berk. The sun hadn't risen yet but a purple hue lit the darkened clouds. Fromund stood idly, lackadaisically tapping a rhythm on his leg to accompany the thumping behind him. He briefly glanced at the oddly lit sky again, then to the space around him. His bored, brown eyes caught his reflection in a murky puddle at his feet. He grimaced. His skin looked sickly and pale, and dark bags hung beneath his eyes; he looked at least a decade older than he really was and tired. _Very_ tired. He took one last drag from his cigarette then flicked it into the puddle with a sigh.

Ongul glanced at the multitude of cigar butts his friend left on the floor. 'Long day?' He asked.

Fromund chuckled bitterly. _Long day_ was an understatement. The whole week had been non-stop work: collecting protection money, warding off opposition, roughing up disloyal politicians. 'Boss hasn't let me get any shut-eye for the last ten days,' he whispered as he shook a fresh pack of cigarettes. 'This is the only thing keeping me sane.'

'You know how bad that shit is though, right? If you wanna make it to forty-' Ongul began.

'Make it to forty?' Fromund snorted. 'In this line of work?' He subconsciously moved a hand to the Uzi tucked in his waistband. 'That's not happening.'

'I am trying to concentrate.' An accented voice called from behind them. The voice was slow and deliberate, even through exertion.

Both men turned to face their boss. He bore his teeth, looking uncharacteristically manic with blood splattered across his face and dripping from his greying, brown hair. His fist hovered over the disfigured face of what used to be a charming middle-aged man, and his other hand held the limp figure up by his collar. Despite his appearance, he radiated a sense of composure that sent shivers down Fromund's spine as he watched his boss crack his fist into the bloodied man's nose one final time. The Brit pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face then removed his crimson-stained brass knuckles.

Ongul winced and in a whisper asked, 'What did that guy do to make boss come out for him personally?'

Fromund gave a casual shrug. 'I heard that he was leaking information.' He shook his head then added, 'Coward.'

The men quietened again as their boss brushed past them and stalked towards his car. 'Dispose of his body, then return to HQ.' He snapped before slamming the door closed and driving away.

Both men shared a glance then made their way to the bloody body on the floor.

Fromund grabbed the man's legs. 'How's the wife?' He asked, needing a distraction.

'Angry as always.' Ongul sighed as he grabbed the dead man's hands. 'Yesterday she snapped at me for forgetting to take the yak meat out of the freezer – made me sleep on the sofa. I'll tell you, I've slept on the sofa so often this year that I'm starting to consider replacing it with a bed.'

Fromund let out a laugh, a large smile playing on his lips. 'That's why I'm never getting married.'

'I used to say the same thing when I was your age. Then my ma began. . .'

He trailed off as the lights in the alleyway flickered out one by one. Something clattered behind them and not a second later, Fromund dropped the body and pulled the Uzi from his waistband. Ongul followed suit and cautiously drew his weapon from its holster.

Ongul nervously rolled his shoulders. 'Stay alert.' He whispered as they pressed their backs together.

The sound of glass crunching beneath boots sounded from the other side of the alley. Both men spun around. Fromund let out a short burst from his Uzi, lighting the area momentarily. A silhouetted figure sprinted past them, drawing a shout of fear from both men.

'What the fuck!' Yelled Fromund. 'Wuh-what was that?' Silenced answered him. He checked behind himself only to discover that Ongul was gone. 'Ongul,' he whispered. 'Ongul?' He repeated but received no reply. ' _Fuck!'_

'Where's Johann?' An inhumanly low voice called, echoing around the alley.

In reply, Fromund sprayed bullets in every direction he could until his clip ran dry. He fumbled to reload, pushing the ammunition release and letting the magazine clatter to the floor; before he could fish a new one from his pocket, the gun was snatched out of his hand. He looked up slowly, his eyes widening as he came face to face with the demon tormenting him. Menacingly, the demon leaned closer to him. A chill ran down his spine as its featureless face watched him from barely an inch away. 'Johann,' it growled. 'Where is he?'

'J-johann?' He asked, feeling sweat trickle down his face.

The demon leaned closer. 'The Trader.'

Fromund gulped, only the important people knew his name; Fromund personally knew him as either boss or The Trader. If _Johann_ ever found out that he knew his name. . . He glanced at the disfigured man on the floor. That would be him next. But if the demon got to Johann first. . . 'H-he juh-just left.' Fromund stuttered.

The demon cursed under his breath. 'Where's he going?'

'To the old mill, I-I can show you.' He offered.

'No need.' The demon drew its fist back then smashed it against Fromund's head, lulling him into the sleep he'd wanted so much.

The demon slowed as he neared the discarded corpse, his fists clenching by his side. 'I'm coming for you, Johann.' He whispered to himself before breaking into a sprint.

* * *

The abandoned mill was once a revered spot of Berk; not for what it was but for what it represented: a Berk before electricity, a Berk untainted by technology's touch. The village that housed it was stubborn, refusing to adapt to the changing world in favour of doing things the traditional way. But in attempting to preserve the old world they doomed themselves. Their supplies dwindled and the economy inevitably collapsed, launching the village into a state of disrepair. Soon, casinos gained an interest in the village. Gambling and strip clubs became the city's main source of revenue, and the innocent village became a city full of prostitutes and drunkards, with a class divide sharp enough to put any two-sided axe to shame. Now, the mill serves as a reminder of what happens when you don't change with the times. Time forces _you_ to change.

The demon slipped up to the side of the mill, his body enveloped in shade. His mentor had been the one to tell him the story of the city and how: while being naive, the village was a place that prided itself on its sense of community. Now the city had the highest crime rates in the entirety of Berk and to make it worse, after his mentor's passing, Odinborns (humans endowed with superhuman abilities) have actively avoided being even remotely close to the place. The city was his responsibility now.

Back hunched, the demon leaned forward to observe the large, tinted car that approached from the distance. It seemed that Johann had made a stop before coming here as he had a small convoy of vans trailing behind him. Johann stepped out of the vehicle, gravel crunching beneath his boots as, stiff-gaited, he walked to greet a group of armed men awaiting him. They exchanged a few words then he gestured for the van drivers to begin unloading before entering the building.

It was odd to witness an arms dealer and his armed pals walk into an old windmill, but that's probably why Johann chose it as a hiding spot: nobody would ever suspect it. High-level criminals usually went for abandoned nuclear bunkers in remote locations, but the mill, it sat on the city's outskirts; easy to access and easy to escape. Perfect.

'Hmm. . .' The demon grunted to himself as the van drivers carried boxes into the building, armed men like the ones Johann spoke to overlooking them. The thug he interrogated earlier didn't mention that the mill was so heavily guarded.

Those men Johann spoke with seemed as comfortable with their guns as they were with having clothes on, and the armour they wore, it was military grade – almost special forces level. 'What are you up to, Johann?' The demon whispered, his voice taking on a curious tone. He rose his hand towards the top of the mill and clenched his fist, launching a grappling hook from his gauntlet. The demon zipped through the air, appearing as nothing more than a darkened blotch against the night sky. He dismounted his grappling hook from the mill's roof with practised ease, then peered his head through a large gap in the roof's tiling. Finding nobody in the room, he leapt through the hole, wincing as the building's wooden floorboards creaked beneath the sudden addition of his weight.

The demon stood to his feet slowly, the room's eerie silence immediately setting him on edge. He took in a deep breath of stale air then stepped towards the door, single arm stretching towards the handle, the other hovering over the stun gun holstered on his thigh. Rushed footsteps sounded from outside of the room, prompting him to cock his head.

'I heard something for sure this time.' A muffled voice stated.

The door handle twisted. Eyes wide, the demon scrambled away, pressing himself against the shadowed wall by the door just as it slammed open and two armed guards walked in, guns raised, flashlights cutting through the darkness. A tense quietude betook the room as they fanned out, one taking the left side of the room, the other taking the right. The sound of creaking floorboards was the only thing heard for a few seconds until a pigeon fluttered through the hole in the roof. Both guards snapped towards it, then visibly relaxed once they realised what it was.

The smaller of the two guards lowered their gun, absently watching as a second pigeon flew into the room shortly after, joining its feathery friend in a nest on the floor. 'False alarm.' They stated, their voice distorter not fully masking the femininity to their voice.

'Better safe than sorry.' The other sighed, also lowering his gun. He appeared to be similar in height to the demon, though he was wider, with broad shoulders and an inhumanly muscular frame. 'I swear, this place always has me on edge.'

'Hang in there, Wolf.' The short guard encouraged him, crossing the room and laying a hand on _Wolf's_ shoulder. 'One more job then we ditch this place.'

Wolf turned, a smile vaguely showing through his mouthless balaclava as he rested a hand on her hip.

'Cute.' A new voice commented.

The guards simultaneously turned around to find a figure in the doorway – a demon of sorts, silhouetted against the harsh light that streamed into the room. They hesitated in their surprise and he took full advantage of it, letting two shots off from his stun gun before they could leave their stupor. A faint grin lit his face as the guards crumpled to the floor like two discarded pieces of paper. He dragged them into the corner of the room and promptly relieved _Wolf_ of his uniform.

While pulling off the soldier's bulletproof vest his hand brushed against an abnormally rough patch of flesh over his bicep. He paused. Curiously, the demon took a second to analyse the bicep further. That rough patch of skin wasn't from a rash or something as simple as that. It was from a burn – a brand to be more specific. Seared into the soldier's flesh was the insignia of a dragon's head: face narrow and horns curling. His blood ran cold. He pulled the unnamed guard's sleeve up and found the same. The room's temperature seemed to lower a few degrees further.

The room warped and suddenly the mill's stagnant air was replaced with a cool summer breeze, the wooden floor became concrete and the walls fell away. A large tanker truck drove down the road at a steady pace, a small convoy of cars guiding it through traffic. The cars in the convoy were normal looking, all varying in make and colour; it was discreet. Nobody paid the cars any attention until a second, less discreet convoy of black cars came to a stop a short distance ahead of the truck. A group of armed men jumped out, levelling their weapons at the cars. A single shot rang out. Time seemed to slow and all hel broke loose as all of the men began to unload their clips on all cars in the vicinity. Screams echoed around the streets and traffic screeched to a halt as stray bullets began to hit pedestrians too. The demon let out a gasp as bodies began to fall. He trembled violently as he took in the sight of windshields stained crimson. One of the armed assailants turned towards the demon as if only just seeing him. His armour was unconventional and twisted his muscular form into something inhuman. Painted a blood red across his chest, was a dragon's head, its face narrow and its horns curling past his shoulders. The man gave a warm, almost fatherly smile then saluted.

The room warped again and the demon found himself standing in the mill once more. After pulling Wolf's kit over his own, he rose a hand, hesitating before removing his own leathery mask and wiping the beading sweat from his forehead. He wasn't religious but still said a short prayer to the gods before obscuring his face with Wolf's balaclava. He crouched and took the man's M4 carbine before deciding it was time to leave.

'Act like them: become them.' He whispered to himself as he tucked his leathery mask under his bulletproof vest and shed the demon persona. Those were his mentor's words. He wished the man was here to help him now.

He left the room adopting a new gait. For any disguise to work you have to look like you belong wherever you are; in this case it means adopting the rigid confidence found in most well-seasoned soldiers. The practised grip he held his gun in, however, wasn't an imitation. It felt as if it was only yesterday that his mentor had taught him to use firearms, poking fun at his inability to hit a single target. little did the man know that the demon purposely missed the targets because he hated guns. He hated how easy it made hurting others; all it took was the squeeze of a trigger and a life was gone. Then, he would've avoided using guns at all costs. The demon patted the carbine, shaking his head. _So naive._

'Wolf?' An accented voice called to him. A burly woman approached him, M16 in hand. 'What are you doing here? You're supposed to be downstairs with the Britisher.' She drawled in a monotonous voice.

 _Wolf_ turned slowly. 'Ay, but I could've sworn that I heard a noise coming from that room.' He stated, jabbing a finger towards the room he just left. 'False alarm.' He subtly adjusted his imitation of Wolf's faintly Scottish voice until it was indistinguishable from the actual thing; he was good at voices and had a good ear. Nobody would know it's him – with or without Wolf's voice distorter. It was this skill that enabled him to pull off the inhumanly deep voice he used on the thug in the alleyway.

The soldier pushed past the demon with a sigh, the night vision goggles around her neck swinging with the action. 'Fox always said that you were paranoid. Where is Fox anyway?'

'Resting.' The demon stated, dropping the accent. He rose his stun gun to the soldier's neck then pulled the trigger before she could react. 'Naptime.' The demon sighed as he dragged the woman into the room containing Fox and Wolf. Before he left he pulled up the woman's sleeve and found the same dragon insignia. They must be m _ercenaries of some sort. Is Johann working for them or with them?_

Wolf casually lowered himself down the single rotting, wooden ladder that led to the next floor. The entirety of the floor was composed of a single large, circular room that appeared to be the mill's armoury. Every inch of the room's white wall was lined with guns, ranging from pistols and snipers, to weapons that looked as if they were ripped out of an episode of Star Trek. Grenades, RPGs and armour sat strewn across tables throughout the room and at its very centre was the mill itself in all of its antique glory. He nodded politely to the stocky man taking the weapon's inventory. Of everybody the demon had seen so far, this man seemed to be the anomaly. He wore no armour, instead dawning a long, white lab coat and a pair of thick-rimmed glasses on his broad nose.

'Uh, Wolf?' The man, called. The demon turned around, imagining possible ways this interaction could go – most ending with the man's unconscious body being shoved in a storage unit of some sort. 'Thanks for covering for me the other day. With. . . you know what.'

He didn't _know what. Wolf_ gave a friendly salute, slyly using his other hand to pocket two sticky EMPs and a few small flares. After a short moment, he spun around and continued on his merry way, only slowing when he approached a metal staircase leading down to a lower level; the mill was only supposed to have two floors and yet, there was another. He took a few tentative steps down the stairs, perking up at the sound of low-level chatter, noting that at the end of the staircase stood a massive metal door. He pressed his hand to the door, feeling the subtle vibrations of distant voices. He furrowed his brows and suddenly it was as if he was in the next room, watching the congregation that chattered to each other. From what he could tell there was a little over a dozen mercs in the room, all of them armed. Excluding the door he was currently touching, there was a single additional exit to the room with a wall of sandbags off to its right _._ _That could act as cover if I was to ever need it,_ he absentmindedly told himself. He didn't plan to get into any trouble, just get some info on the mercs and ambush Johann when the chance arose but the demon wasn't naive, he knew that very few times did the plan go. . . as planned. The demon removed his hand from the door's cold surface and reached out for the handle. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Before the tips of his fingers could even settle on the metal handle, the door swung open, revealing another mercenary in similar attire to his own, though she sported none of the armour. She stood frozen, her surprise mirroring his.

After a moment of quietude, the disgruntled merc gestured him into the room. 'I was about to look for you.' She explained, adjusting the night vision goggles on her forehead. 'Where's Fox?' She asked, eyes narrowing.

Though he made no indication of it, the venom with which the woman asked after her comrade didn't go unnoticed to the demon. 'On her way.' He replied in Wolf's voice, stepping past her and into the room. It was circular, like the floor above it but almost three times the size of the cramped armoury and well lit, with fluorescent lights seemingly shining from every inch of the ceiling. The most notable thing about the room was its smell; gun powder, and lots of it too.

The mercenary hovered near him, arms crossed. Did she expect something? He opened his mouth but was abruptly cut short as a British voice called out to the group. 'Come now, I have neither the time or the patience to be kept waiting.' Johann stood by a table of trinkets, arms folded and mouth downturned with a frown. 'You'll just have to tell those not in attendance what they missed.'

At those words, everybody in the room formed a loose circle around the arms dealer. Wolf moved to join the group as to remain inconspicuous though that mindset was promptly cut short when a hand tugged him back. The same armourless merc that had been following him, held his wrist in a tight grip, keeping him a metre or two from the main body of the group; it was probably for the best. The demon feared that if he was too close to Johann he would leap at the man and pummel the smug son of a bitch until his knuckles bled.

'Can we talk?' She asked.

The demon froze. How should he reply? He knew he was likely overthinking but so far, everybody has been so ambiguous about Wolf that he has no clue who the man is. Would the real Wolf even reply? 'About what?'

She flushed red. 'About. . . _that_ night.'

'That night?' The demon repeated. Then it sunk in. 'Oh, right, that night. Of course.' _Smooth,_ his mentor's voice commented.

'I need to know,' She began, turning her eyes towards the floor. 'Was any of it real?'

'I. . .' The demon didn't know what to say. Suddenly, he was beginning to understand what sort of person Wolf was. Why was it that of all the people he happened to chose to imitate, it had to be the most _involved_ person?

'I know what Fox is to you,' She interrupted, likely fearing his answer. 'But. . .' She took a deep breath in. 'I'm pregnant.'

The demon went rigid. _What the fuck have I gotten myself into? Wolf's life is like a crappy teen drama. 'Wow,'_ was all the demon could get out. It was weird seeing the bad guys as more than just that, but it's definitely for the best that he's reminded that no single person is a faceless goon. Everybody has their own motivation and reasoning that makes them a human deserving of life. . . even if that motivation is sex and money. The demon turned his attention to Johann as the man rambled on; was this true for even this man, a mass murderer?

Wolf's not-girlfriend snapped her slender fingers in front of his face. 'Did I break you?'

'Uh, no I'm just. . . surprised.'

'Well, what did you expect to happen? I told you to use protecti-'

'I get it.' The demon deadpanned, fighting the urge to facepalm on behalf of the real Wolf.

'I just- I wanted you to know before you left with Fox.' She let her words hang in the air for a moment, then hesitated. 'Get back to me after the debriefing, okay.' She released his wrist and stepped into the crowd of mercenaries.

The demon breathed out a sigh of relief, he doubted that he would be able to maintain the facade much longer. Humans are such complicated creatures. Pushing such thoughts away, he turned his attention back to Johann.

'. . . for next week's job.' The arms dealer finished, accented voice composed as usual.

'Are you coming with us?' The tallest of the group asked, his strong Irish accent evident in his words.

Johann scoffed. 'No, I'm much too old. For now, I'll be focusing my energy on removing loose ends.' Johann let out a breath then continued. 'All of you in this room have agreed to this job. It's high risk, high rewards but to help reduce that risk somewhat, I've brought the usual stock alongside a few things that should assist you against even the most powerful of the Odinborns.' He gestured to the items on his table, 'Energy weapons, rebreathers, explosives,' he lifted two sets of keys, 'vehicles and power armour.'

 _Energy weapons? Power armour?_ The demon thought. _What sort of job is this exactly?_ The group mumbled amongst themselves; their reaction indicated that they too were surprised by the addition of these items.

 _'_ Let's just say that I have a few contacts that want their products tested in the field.' Johann explained. 'We'll be making money while making money.'

More mumbles ran through the room but this time the demon paid them no attention as he was too occupied fishing one of the sticky EMPs from the belt/pouch combo on Wolf's uniform and separating the device from its trigger. The EMP was a smooth hemisphere with a diameter a little shorter than the width of his palm – like a cricket ball sawed down its centre. The demon weighed it in his hand absently as he searched the room for the best place to plant it. Funnily, there was an abnormally large amount of fire extinguishers in the room. Did Johann's equipment tend to explode? Midway through the search of the room, he found that there was a fuse box off to the room's corner. How to get it there without rousing any suspicion? Shrugging his shoulders, the demon walked over to the fuse box and planted the EMP. Apparently, everybody was so immersed in Johann's speech that they paid him no attention. He almost chuckled. He had no doubt that if he did let himself laugh it would be a maniacal, supervillainesque laugh that would most definitely compromise his cover.

The demon took a few steps forwards, considering his next course of action. A basic plan was already brewing in his mind: he would rejoin the group and when the correct time came he would distract the mercenaries with a well-timed blackout, then snatch Johann in the confusion. For a moment he was honestly stupid enough to believe that his plan had a chance of working; at least until. . . The door slammed open. A semi-naked man stumbled into the room, movements frantic as he gave the room a once over. His eyes widened once his gaze caught the man posing as him. 'I'm gonna kill you!' He shouted, pointing at him.

There was a moment of silence as everybody attempted to figure out what was happening; the demon could practically hear the cogs turning in the mercenaries' heads. Then, finally putting two and two together, a dozen guns became trained on _his_ head, uncertainty being the only thing to prevent them from pulling their trigger. Sighing, the demon rose his hands in false submission. 'Well shit,' he whispered. _You should have tied him up._ A voice – his mentor's voice – stated in his head, ever so willing to give advice _after_ he fucked up, quite similar to reality actually.

'Who are you, _imposter_?' Wolf's pregnant, not-girlfriend spat, stepping forward.

Under the balaclava, the demon gave a faint grin. A part of him was surprised he got this far considering that none of the things to happen in the mill had been planned _._ He cocked his head then pressed his thumb down on the EMP's trigger. The room was immediately plunged into darkness and chaos. A hail of bullets tore through the air, shots lighting the dark room with its harsh fiery glow. A chorus of enraged shouts filled the room once the mercenaries realised that the imposter was no longer before them. No. He was long gone. The demon had opted for the safer alternative of being shot: getting the hel out of the way. He hung in the air for a moment, swaying gently from side to side. His gloved hand was clasping the grapnel wire he'd used to escape and his other was reaching for his stun gun. Within a few seconds the mercenaries' shouts had settled to murmurs and, as if by second nature, they began to settle into a defensive formation; by this time everybody had already pulled on their night vision goggles, that – wisely – was insulated against EMP attacks. A gasp rang through the crowd as a single merc noticed the silhouetted figure hanging from the ceiling.

Breath in. Breath out. The demon fell into the midst of the crowd, instantly taking out a mercenary with a kick to the face. Shots rang out. The demon ducked low, letting the bullets slam into the wall behind him. He kicked out a mercenary's leg, dislocating it from the knee, then let out three shots of his own from his stun gun. Three of the armed men fell to the floor as he rolled behind the cover of the stack of sandbags. He closed his eyes and pressed his hand to the floor. Suddenly, he could see all the mercenaries that were converging on his location clearly and the position of those that stayed back to keep him pinned with constant fire from their suppressed weapons. The demon pulled two flares from his pouch and set them alight. They both let out a brilliant red light that lit the entirety of the room with a crimson hue. He lifted them past his cover, listening with satisfaction as the mercenaries gave out pained shouts. The demon leapt from cover and slammed his fist into the first disgruntled merc he came across; the night vision goggles she wore fell off as she slumped to the floor, hands over eyes. He stepped past her and let two shots off from his stun gun. The stun gun spat out small disks that lodged into two of the mercenaries and rendered them unconscious. He pressed the trigger again but the gun gave a hollow click. As if to rub salt in the wound, the lights flickered back on with perfectly inconvenient timing. He turned to the last few mercenaries.

'He's out!' A thick-necked merc called.

'Get him while he's exposed!' Another called.

The demon holstered the weapon then drove his fist into the thick-necked man's face. The man stumbled, then fell to the floor in a dazed mess. 'Now why would you assume I'm defenceless?' The demon asked, his tone amused. He pulled out the knife he kept on his boot, waiting for the next attack.

The mercenaries shared uncertain glances. They had him surrounded, should they risk shooting each other? Were their chances against him in hand-to-hand combat really any better than risking killing each other? The demon watched them curiously. They seemed hesitant.

'You cowards!' One of the mercenaries yelled, levelling his gun at the demon. Without warning, the mercenary, eyes burning with pain and anger, let off a volley of shots; dust exploded from the walls as bullets slammed into concrete. The demon pulled the two mercs closest to him to the floor but couldn't save the others as bullets tore through their armour and peppered them with holes.

The demon yelled as pain flared in his thigh. With effort, he stood up again, favouring his right leg, but before he could even process what happened he noticed the twitching, bloody bodies littering the floor. Horror betook him. One of the downed men stared blankly into the air, gargling loudly as blood filled his mouth. _Punctured lung,_ he concluded; there was no saving him. The demon turned his attention back to the merc that had just done this to his own team. He was stalking towards him, unbothered by his own actions. Angry, the merc discarded his gun then tore off his armour and mask, revealing a scarred face. His square jaw was set in a scowl and almost as if to emphasise his anger, smoke began to rise from his shoulders. The demon's eyes widened as he realised what was happening.

'Crap!' The demon hobbled away as the man's remaining clothes burned to ash. In a brilliant burst of white, the merc exploded into flames, the heat slamming the demon to the ground as if he had been kicked. The man stomped towards him, melting the floor with every step he took. _Odinborn,_ the demon internally growled as he rolled away from the flames – an elemental one to be more specific. An Odinborn's powers usually manifest with, and emphasises, their most prominent personality traits. This man is evidently a hothead. _That's not a half-bad name,_ the demon told himself.

Hothead continued to advance. _'_ You come to our base!?' He shouted, voice crackling and hissing as if every word he spoke was through burning wood. 'You impersonate one of us!?' He drew closer, flames falling from his molten form and setting the floor alight. The demon rolled to his feet, taking cover behind a stack of boxes left behind by Johann. _Where was that bastard anyway?_ 'The lives of my comrades will only be a small price to pay for your death!' Hothead called, throwing a ball of fire after the demon. The boxes immediately erupted into flames, instantaneously becoming blackened to char but the demon was already gone, zipping to the other side of the room with his grapnel. Hothead growled in displeasure, flames flailed and flickered around him, pulsing with an unnatural energy. 'Viggo will have your head!' He screamed.

The demon perched on one of many large light fixtures hanging from the ceiling. 'Viggo?' He repeated under his breath. Was this man referring to himself in the third person as villains tended to, or is there something he's missing? The demon took aim with his stun gun then, remembering the empty click it gave when he last pressed the trigger, holstered it – it needed time to recharge; time he didn't have. _The old fashioned way then,_ the demon internally sighed.

'Come on out!' Hothead bellowed, crossing the room. 'Why don't we fight this out?' He paused beneath the demon, bald head snapping left then right. 'Like men.' He added, suddenly raising his gaze to where the demon perched.

 _Shit._ The demon leapt from the light fixture. It exploded behind him, molten metal and fractured glass spraying through the air. He landed in a crouch, splitting pain flaring in his leg as he broke into a sprint. The carbine he stole from Wolf no longer hung in front of his chest, now, he held it in both hands, a single finger hovering over the trigger. _Desperate times call for desperate measures._

Hothead thrust his arms towards the demon, jets of fire spewed from his hands, twisting and curling like small fiery tornadoes. The demon flipped out of the way of the blast and let a burst of shots rattle from the gun, the recoil hammered at his shoulder. The bullets would likely melt before they hit Hothead but the demon was willing to bet that it would still hurt. As if to confirm the demon's suspicion, Hothead let out an outraged scream as bullets pelted his knee.

'Coward!' He called. Heat flared from him. The air grew distorted.

 _I have to neutralise him fast,_ the demon thought. He had no chance against a pyrokinetic in close combat, he'd be roasted before he could even land a punch. _Unless. . ._ He remembered his search of the room and knew what he had to do before he could even finish the string of thought _._

The demon bounded past the discarded mercenaries, less than gracefully flipping through the air to avoid the fireballs overhead. Within seconds, he found himself standing by the door that he had first used to enter the room and the two large fire extinguishers that clung to the wall by it. He pulled them off and threw them at Hothead as he attempted to make his exit.

'Don't be scared, demon, it's just a little fire.' Hothead taunted, easily sidestepping the canisters. He threw a large fireball that burned a furious red. The demon ducked low and shot his grapnel, zipping past Hothead and to the other side of the room as the fireball melted the door shut. 'I thought fire and hell were supposed to go hand in hand!' He taunted, amused.

 _The son of a bitch is enjoying this,_ the demon growled, landing by the table Johann had been giving his speech at and flipping it over. The table's contents scattered across the floor, and behind its cover, the demon picked through the items until he came across a small cylindrical device similar in size to the trigger he used for the EMP. He pressed it to his lips widthways and stood up, facing Hothead. Hothead stared quizzically back at the demon, evidently taken aback by the presence of a rebreather in his mouth. The demon rose his gun. . . then shot the discarded fire extinguishers. Hothead's smug smile fell as he was enveloped in an explosion of white. _Good._

Hothead flickered, flames spluttering around him as coughs racked his body. The demon leapt over the table and into the cloud after the man. Pain shuddered through his leg as he crashed into him knee first, fist raised and ready to strike. He laid into the man, gloves smoking as he let out a flurry of punches. He persisted through his fatigue, hoping that one of the punches would knock the Odinborn out. Hothead, however, managed to shove the demon back and, hand over mouth, tried to find his way out of the cloud of carbon dioxide. The demon scrambled after Hothead, injured leg slowing him, though he did manage to grab hold of the mercenary's arm and throw him to the floor. At that moment, Hothead's flames completely spluttered out, revealing the mercenary's soot-covered, nude body. The demon hesitated. Fire Odinborns usually wore specialised suits under their clothes; he hadn't expected to have to restrain a naked man.

Seeing the hesitation as an opportunity, Hothead kicked the demon's legs out from beneath him, causing him to stumble away. Hothead stood with the renewed vigour one could only find in an Odinborn, then tackled the demon to the floor. Both men, a cluster of flailing limbs, skidded out of the dispersing cloud of carbon dioxide. The demon kicked the man off and rolled to his feet, noting that Hothead stood a short distance away, face twisted with frustration. He seemed to be attempting to activate his powers but all he managed to summon was a number of small flames on his arms.

The demon spat out his rebreather. 'There's pills for that.' He commented drily as they circled each other.

Hothead gave an animalistic scowl, charging his foe. 'I'll kill you with my bare hands then, demon.'

Demon. It wasn't a name, not really, it was more of a status or a role. The Berkian Mail had been the ones to pin him as a demon. After that, it had stuck. Likely because he didn't go around saving folk in brightly coloured spandex or preach about truth, justice and the Berkian way. It didn't matter because either way, he would never be good enough for them, not like that group of Odinborns - The New Gods. They're wrong though. Demons don't save lives. He does.

'Touchy.' The demon replied, slipping beneath Hothead's punch, the gargantuan fist whistled over his head with a scary amount of power. While Hothead wasn't alight, the demon could feel the heat radiating from him: sooner or later the mercenary will gain access to his abilities again. The demon dodged beneath a second blow, this time throwing one of his own. His fist impacted the man's sternum and Hothead recoiled, raising a hand to his chest. The demon followed the move with a kick that had Hothead stumbling over an unconscious mercenary. As if realising he wouldn't win a fair fight, Hothead scrambled for a mercenary's gun. The demon leapt after it too. It was too late when he realised it was a feint as Hothead had already slammed his foot into the demon's injured leg, forcing him to the floor. The demon attempted to stand up again but Hothead dragged him back down into his grasp, wrapping his muscled arms around the demon's neck. Hothead grunted in effort, his skin adopting a faint orange glow. Saliva fell from the man's mouth as he tightened his grip on the demon's neck; even without his powers Hothead was a dangerous foe, possessing an abnormally large frame and strength that the demon knew he'd never come close to possessing himself.

The demon's head swam as he fought to force air into his lungs. He lashed and pounded at the Hothead's arms, fists growing sore and desperate as he beat at the rapidly heating man. Confusion and panic bounced around his mind. _Focus_ , his mentor snapped at him, he wouldn't be able to survive by acting erratically. _Remember what I taught you,_ the voice continued _._ The demon reached his hand up to Hothead's face, fingers searching until his thumb found purchase on one of Hothead's eyes. He pushed, ignoring the man's cry of pain as he plunged his thumb further into the man's socket. Then, like bubble wrap squashed between two fingers, Hothead's eye burst. He let out a blood-curdling howl that had the demon's ears ringing; fluids and blood gushed out of his destroyed eye like air from a pierced balloon.

The demon used the wall nearest to him to pull himself to his feet, blood slicked hands providing little purchase to the concrete wall. He relished the sensation of being able to breathe again, watching from afar as Hothead attempted to regain his bearings also. Loose flesh was hanging from the man's bloodied eye-socket, his scowl – somehow deeper than before – made his wounds eerie rather than gruesome, especially with blood streaking his scarred cheek like crimson tears. He didn't look injured, he looked undead, like a reanimated corpse searching for flesh. Flames began to crawl across the man's chiselled chest, snapping the demon out of his stupor. Hothead was approaching, and he looked very, very angry. His skin glowed red-hot and his shaved scalp smoked; his rage was palpable – as real the heat that radiated from him. The demon could feel it. The stun gun bleeped in readiness but he feared it was too late. The demon drew the weapon. Hothead leapt forward, flames building in his hands. A barely audible swish sounded. The super lurched to the side, eyes wide as he toppled to the floor face first, revealing a dagger embedded in the back of his skull, the demon's dagger – the one he lost while saving those mercenaries from death by the hands of Hothead.

One of _those_ mercenaries stood near the melted door, cradling their side. 'Man, I hated that guy.' He joked, voice sickeningly nonchalant.

The demon ignored the comment and crouched by the body. There was no pulse. 'Dead.' He sighed.

The mercenary reached beneath his mask and scratched at his beard. 'Well, that tends to happen when you stab a man in the head.'

The demon didn't turn his attention away from the corpse despite the mercenary standing over him; he figured that if the man wanted to harm him he would have already tried. Plus, Odinborns had a nasty habit of coming back to life. The demon grabbed hold of the dagger's handle and, with some effort, yanked it from its purchase. Blood spurted from the wound, sizzling and bubbling as it settled on the floor. 'Where did Johann go?' He asked as he sheathed the red-hot weapon.

The merc lackadaisically gestured to a body on the floor. 'There.' He stated, voice still too calm considering what just happened.

The demon hesitated, then took a single step towards the bloodied body. Johann leapt up from where he lay and broke out into a sprint. _Pretending to be dead, smart._ The demon took off after him, noting the way the mercenary shook his head in amusement. Johann slipped through the room's second entrance but before he could get much further the demon caught him by the collar and slammed him against a wall.

'lucky me.' Johann drawled sarcastically. 'What have I done to earn the pleasure of your visit?'

'You're a wanted criminal.' The demon growled in return.

Johann cocked his head expectantly. 'Is that it? No speech, no beat down?'

'No.'

Johann narrowed his eyes in suspicion. 'Surely I must've done something that you want to lecture me about?'

The demon itched to pull off his mask, itched to show him who he was, itched to tell him everything. But he couldn't. If he showed Johann his face he'd have to kill him and deserving or not, he wouldn't cross that line. He can't lose what's left of his humanity. 'You've hurt people.' He began, ignoring Johann's question. Anger laced his words. 'The man you killed today recently gave police evidence tying you to the murder of Ansgar Erlend. Does the name ring any bells?'

'No,' Johann huffed in a disinterested tone, though his voice wavered slightly.

'He was a truck driver. You killed him twelve years ago.'

Johann shifted uncomfortably, suddenly regretting that he made the demon talk. 'I don't know what you're talking about.' He stated defiantly.

'I'm talking about Judgement Day.' The demon explained, leaning forward, tone shifting to a whisper as if he was about to share a secret. 'I know that you were a part of it.'

Johann's eyes widened and the room, now deadly silent, warped back to that fateful night again. The demon found himself standing in the summer's breeze; it carried the unmistakable coppery scent of blood. Hel, the stuff was everywhere, puddling beneath crashed cars and the many dead bodies that littered the floor.

Tires screeched in the distance as the armoured men that caused this mayhem retreated; the demon paid this no mind, too focused on trying to get his body to respond to his instructions, but despite his efforts, it remained completely frozen, fear seizing control and paralysing him completely. Two new shots went off. The demon's eyes snapped up just in time to see Johann, gun in hand, pull a pudgy man from out of the driver's seat of the truck that sat at the centre of the mayhem and take a seat behind the steering wheel. The pudgy man fell to the floor, unresponsive and stiff, his head turned slightly to reveal the gaping hole between his eyebrows. Not a second later, his head was crushed beneath one of the tanker truck's wheels as it began moving.

The demon lowered his head as he felt himself get tugged back into reality. 'So many people. . . dead. Because of _you._ A _twelve-year-old_ _boy_ lost his sight. Hel, it's a miracle that he's even alive!' The demon growled through clenched teeth, displaying too much of the hurt he harboured.

Johann said nothing, eyes cast down.

'And what happened after,' the demon went on, 'millions were-.'

'That wasn't my fault!' Johann snapped. He lowered his head, defeat radiated from him. 'I lost people that day too. You don't understand what really happened.'

Johann's outburst caught the demon by surprise, as was indicated by his silence. 'Make me understand.' He ordered, voice softening the tiniest bit, though not nearly enough to hide the disgust and anger in his tone.

Johann shook his head. . . then smiled. The barely audible hiss of pressurised air sounded and immediately, something latched onto the demon's chest. The demon felt his muscles tense up then he fell to the floor, releasing his grip on Johann's neck as his legs gave out beneath him. He convulsed on the floor. The arm's dealer used the opening and instantly took off in a dash, stun gun falling from his hand. _That slippery bastard stole my gun,_ the demon growled internally, noting the empty holster on his leg. He tore off the small disk the stun gun had attached to his suit then stood to his feet once he felt himself regain control of his muscles. His suit was insulated against the average electrical attack but he hadn't anticipated that he would be distracted enough (or stupid enough) to let somebody use his own weapon against him – the weapon _he_ designed to even take down an Odinborn if they were to turn against him.

The stun gun crunched beneath the demon's heavy boots as he stalked after Johann, seething; he would regret that move later, he was sure of it, but now, it was satisfying as hel. How could he have let that happen? An arms dealer, of all people, was the one to take advantage of his need to see good in people. He threw himself through a pair of double doors and into a narrow corridor, following the click-clack of Johann's dress shoes against the concrete floor. His mentor's disapproving voice sounded in his head, berating him for being so naive; _not everybody deserves a second chance,_ it seemed to say. The demon turned a corner, approaching a stairwell leading to the higher floors. He ignored the stairs and shot his grapnel upwards; it wrapped around the handrail then pulled taught as he clenched his fist and zipped upwards towards Johann. Under his breath, he said a prayer to the gods that the handrails held his weight then thanked them once he dismounted and pushed himself through a door that had just slammed shut.

Johann was sprinting a short distance away. The demon took aim and shot his grapnel at Johann, it planted into the floor, failing to hit Johann while he was weaving around crates and boxes, displaying a nimbleness that was surprising for somebody of his age. The demon shot his grappling hook a second time as Johann leapt towards a box filled with futuristic looking guns. This time he foresaw the action and managed to snag Johann's leg and yank him into the floor. Johann gave an uncharacteristic yelp and clawed at the floor as the demon wheeled in the line, dragging Johann towards him. Suddenly, Johann spun around, pointing a comically small pistol at the demon. The demon almost snorted audibly. While his armour was more bullet-resistant than bulletproof, no bullet from that gun would be hurting him, especially not while he wore Wolf's armour over his own. Johann squeezed the trigger, the demon's eyes widened. Rather than a bullet leaving the gun, a blast of dark energy slipped from the gun's narrow nozzle, screeching as it shot through the air. The demon felt his face become heated as the blast skimmed past his head, he turned towards the smoking crater the blast left in the wall behind him, then towards Johann again. The smug prick was smiling.

'Shit!' He cursed as he leapt out of the way of a second shot. His grapnel wire went slack as a third sounded.

The demon pressed his back against a crate and felt at his mask. Half of it was gone, exposing pale skin and a single forest-green eye. He gave out a low, animalistic growl as he peaked his head past the crate and found Johann nervously looking from side to side. Once out of Johann's line of sight the demon crouch-walked around to a set of boxes, then behind a row of oddly shaped motorcycles. He leaned forward to move again, however, the grapnel that hung loosely from his gauntlet managed to slip under a motorcycle's wheel. When he tried to move again the vehicle toppled over. Johann spun towards the motorbike, letting off more shots after glimpsing the demon.

 _First, it was Hothead and now it's this?_ 'Note to self:' the demon drawled in annoyance while he scrambled past the ruined motorcycles, 'Remember to get a shield.' He reached to the sheath on his boot and pulled the still warm blade from it, then began to use the weapon to saw away at the wire hanging loosely from his gauntlet.

Johann pushed through the mill's back entrance and into the frigid morning air. He panted profusely, gravel crunched beneath his feet while he ran. Soon after, a second pair of fast-moving footsteps joined his own. He let off some blind shots, allowing a smile to play on his lips at the sound of the demon veering away from him.

The demon had attempted to roll under the barrage but wasn't fast enough to evade it completely. Two shots hit him. The first slammed into his chest but the vest he wore took the brunt of the damage. The second snagged his shoulder, burning through his armour and into his flesh. Grasping his shoulder, the demon leapt behind a concrete pillar. 'What the hel is that gun?' He murmured as he pulled off Wolf's – now useless – bulletproof vest and inspected the hole burned where his heart should have been. He drew his hand from his shoulder to find his fingers slick with blood. The demon opened a small component on his gauntlet and pulled out what looked like a small, blue marshmallow then shoved it into his wound, letting out a hiss as it expanded and plugged the hole in his shoulder.

'Shit.' The demon moaned between pained pants.

He planted his head against the pillar, disorientated, as blast after blast of energy went off, shooting past him or into the pillar. After an eternity of waiting, silence fell across the area. The demon peaked around his cover just in time to catch Johann leaping into some sort of modified matte-black Jeep. The vehicle shook subtly as the weapon's trader adjusted himself in his seat; it was only now that the demon realised how abnormally low the four by four sat on its suspension. _It must be armoured,_ the demon concluded. He wasn't getting to Johann unless he could get him out of the car. The Jeep lurched out of its parking space and sped past the demon, kicking up gravel as Johann slammed his foot on the gas. The demon sighed as the car skidded onto the road and sped away.

New plan.

The demon sprinted back to the motorcycles that he had used as cover from Johann's blast. He felt a great sense of sorrow, venturing past the array of mangled motorbikes; their guts and components strewn over the floor after being punched out by an energy blast. He paused, taking note that a single motorcycle – the one he'd accidentally knocked over – hadn't been completely destroyed. It whirred quietly as if to confirm that it was still functioning. The demon reached his hand towards it, feeling a strange warmth wrap around his body as he propped it back on its large wheels and set himself on the motorbike's squat frame. It had been a while since he had driven any sort of vehicle but a spark of familiarity hit him when he wrapped his hands around the motorcycle's handles. He revved the engine. Smoke rose from the tires as the demon launched the motorcycle out of the mill and onto the road, knocking over a sign that stated 'PROTOTYPE' in blocky, black writing. The demon left a trail of burnt rubber that crisscrossed through the one Johann created before him as he slipped past a pile-up, then weaved through the morning's traffic with a level of agility that seemed to belong to an athlete rather than a motorcycle. He marvelled at the vehicle's manoeuvrability.

Street lights flashed by as he came to a turn, speeding past rows of neon signs advertising nightclubs and cheap motels. Groups of scantily clad women yelled and waved after him as he tore down the streets. He ignored them, switching to the highest gear and leaning forward in anticipation once the black Jeep came into view. Ahead, Johann glimpsed his rear-view mirror, swerving in surprise once he realised the demonic figure was gaining on him again. He swung around a corner wildly, two wheels going onto the sidewalk as he attempted to lose his pursuer. The demon turned the corner too, sparks flying from his knee pads as he leaned into it, allowing his instincts to steer him. He stretched his hand towards the car then clenched his fist, launching his grapnel at Johann's car. He sighed into his mask as it simply sparked, a disconcerting grinding noise coming from the mechanism. _Right, of course that wouldn't work_. He withdrew the arm, elbow nudging a small knob on the motorcycle's dashboard as he returned his hand to the handle. The motorcycle stopped rumbling beneath him and the engine's roar quietened to a purr. Now, the only vibrations he felt was from tires against the tarmac beneath him.

'Whoa,' he breathed. He revved the motorcycle's engine and it whirred in reply. What other capabilities did this motorcycle have? Sadly, now was not the time to test that out.

He took a single hand from off the handle again and pulled the carbine from his back. The demon took aim then let off a burst of shots at the car. The gun bucked violently in his hand, threatening to hit him in the face but he readjusted with each shot. He let the gun hang in front of his chest as he returned his now aching hand to the handle. None of the shots managed to pierce the glass, but they created craters of impact where the glass became clouded, obscuring the majority of the back window. The demon ducked low and approached the four by four. Johann didn't see him riffle through the pouches on his belt and pull out the single EMP he had left then slap it against the car's rear. The demon couldn't lie, the utility of the belt was amazing; it was by far better than keeping everything in his gauntlet.

Johann seemed to realise that something was going on behind him as he slammed down on the breaks, forcing the demon to swerve away. In his attempt to prevent a crash, the demon found himself being forced towards oncoming traffic. Horns blared as he swerved a second time, this time finding himself flying through the crooked gates of the Berkian memorial park. He winced at the transition from tarmac to grass, the suspension juddering and groaning in protest, the tires kicking up damp dirt. He snaked through a large patch of trees, twigs and leaves crunching beneath the large wheels as he trailed a muddy path in the grass. He cursed under his breath. Johann was getting away again. He leaned forward and continued on his course. In front of him, there was a row of bushes blocking his way back on to the road. He rose on the motorbike, bracing himself to slam into the single obstacle blocking his entrance back to Johann. He hit it. The motorcycle's front wheel began to wobble violently as the control he had over the bike suddenly slipped away. He attempted to steady the handles but the sharp turn back onto the road caught him by surprise. He fell from the vehicle, sliding across the tarmac. His armour took the brunt of the fall but he felt the friction heat his back to uncomfortable temperatures. The arms dealer noticed this from a distance way, slamming on his car's electromagnetic breaks as he considered turning his car around.

The demon stood to his feet slowly, then tiredly, stretched his arms out as if daring Johann to hit him. The arms dealer's eyes widened as the inhuman silhouette before him seemed to surrender its life to him. His eyes narrowed to slits, surprise slipping away as he slammed his foot on the gas pedal. Smoke rose from the car's wheels as it quickly built up speed.

'Closer.' The demon beckoned as he slipped the remote for the EMP into his hand.

The car roared as it accelerated down the street. Johann let out an adrenaline filled shout as he raced towards the demon, his unwavering gaze fixed on his target.

Reality flickered and suddenly in the place of Johann's four by four was a tank truck. It ploughed down the street at harrowing speeds, batting away stagnant cars like a racket to a ball. The demon stood frozen as a bus smashed into the huge vehicle, forcing it into a store's wall. The tank that trailed the truck tore itself away and continued on its course. It tumbled down the road; chemicals and sparks flying in the air. The tank exploded into a massive ball of flames. Then everything went white as a burst of searing light shot into the sky.

The demon blinked and suddenly Johann was speeding towards him in his four by four again. The arms dealer let out a final shout as he was about to finally impact the demon. At the very last second, the demon activated the EMP and rolled out of the way, missing the Jeep by a hair's length. The car's lights flickered out as it hurtled past him. Johann's eyes widened as he realised that he was speeding into a sharp turn. He pressed down on the breaks but nothing happened. He swerved suddenly, the tires screeching in struggle as they strained to regain control of the vehicle's motion; two of the wheels gave out, flipping the car upside down. Sparks poured from the car as it skidded on its roof for a few moments then came to halt in the centre of the street.

The demon's nose crinkled as the potent smell of petrol wafted through the air. Suddenly, he was at the tanker explosion again feeling flames lick at his flesh and metal shards pelt his body. He was thrown across the road, his limp body flying through the air like a ragdoll. At the moment he didn't feel the pain, just the burning in his eyes. He heaved out a cough then attempted to rise to his feet but his body didn't respond. Slowly, the distant sobs and screams faded into nothing.

The demon shook his head and approached Johann's upturned vehicle cautiously, observing as the arms dealer struggled to crawl out of the wreckage. He grabbed him by the collar and lifted him to his feet, his menacing air bearing down on the criminal.

'I'm tired of chasing you.' The demon growled, ripping the energy gun from Johann's hands and throwing it to the floor. 'The truck you stole, what was it carrying?'

Johann gave a bloody smile. 'Burn in hell, demon!' He spat.

'Been there, done that.' The demon deadpanned, phantom flames still clawing at his skin. He slammed Johann's back against the upturned vehicle. 'Now talk.'

Johann chuckled. 'You know, this reminds me of a time when-' His sentence was cut short by the sickening snap of bones breaking. He let out a howl and rose his hand, eyes bulging at the sight of limp fingers.

'Every second that you don't tell me what I need to know will cost you a finger.' The demon growled.

Johann's pained expression morphed into a scowl then quickly reverted again as the demon snapped another one of his fingers back, drawing a second shout from the weapons trader. The arms dealer let out a ragged breath but still said nothing. The demon grabbed Johann's thumb. . .

'A bioweapon. It was a bioweapon!' He blurted.

A bioweapon, why would a bioweapon be transported through Berk, let alone Helheim's kitchen? 'What agency was transporting it, before you killed them?'

'I'm not sure. They only told me that the weapon was called Dragon Blood, or something along those lines.' Johann's eyes widened after he spoke.

'They?' The demon pressed. 'Who were you stealing the bioweapon for?' Was it possible that Johann's outburst at the mill wasn't just a ruse to get the demon to lower his defences? Could it be possible that the arms dealer really was just a small piece of a larger plan, a pawn; that judgement day wasn't just caused by a single money hungry man? After the tanker explosion, all the demon ever wanted was to take down the man who hurt him but if he was acting under the instruction of another. . . then the person he really wanted was still out there.

'My client at the time.'

The demon narrowed his eyes. He dropped the man to the floor, watching the arms dealer splutter after faceplanting in a puddle of fuel. 'Perhaps you'd like to try that again.' The demon suggested, lighting a flare near Johann's fuel-covered face.

Johann relented. He spat a blob of pink spittle from his mouth. 'The Grimborn brothers.'

'Who?'

'You'll meet them sooner or later.' Johann chuckled. His weird manic streak seemed to return.

The demon grit his teeth then turned away; strands of auburn hair fell over the exposed half of his face as he dawned a contemplative expression. Suddenly Johann no longer saw a vigilante. He saw a young man. A young man who was confused and almost broken by the news he just received.

'The boy,' Johann whispered, his voice lower than any human should be able to hear. 'The blind boy you spoke of,' He reiterated, voice still low. 'You're him aren't you?' The demon froze, swinging only his head around to face the arms dealer. Johann smiled, that was all the confirmation he needed. 'You're Odinborn.' He observed.

 _Yes,_ his mentor confirmed in his head _._ 'No.' The demon stated flatly. Being Odinborn isn't just having powers, it's a mindset. He lifted the carbine that hung in front of his chest and levelled it at Johann's head. The arms dealer flinched, clearly taken aback by the action.

'I suppose it's too late apologise.' Johann chuckled bitterly.

Sirens bellowed in the distance. They wouldn't arrive in time to save Johann. _Do it,_ his mentor ordered. The demon rested his finger against the trigger: he could do it and nobody would ever know it was him. 'You deserve to die.' The demon growled, single green eye glinting dangerously. He'd waited years for this moment, the moment that he finally brings Johann to justice. He usually discarded the thought of killing the man, but now, with this gun in his hand and Johann at his feet, it feels like too good an option to pass up on. 'This shambolic world would be better with one less man like you on the street.' Johann stared up at the demon silently, looking as if he'd already accepted his fate; then the demon remembered Fox, Wolf and his pregnant mistress. The incredibly flawed humans, who were more than just faceless bad guys. Suddenly, he felt a gaping numbness – nothing but. . . nothing. The demon hissed in frustration then slammed his knee into Johann's head. The arms dealer slumped to the floor, his beanie falling off and revealing the long, greying brown locks beneath. The demon discarded Wolf's carbine also – it would probably be best if he stayed away from it. The voice in his head had gone oddly silent but he paid that no attention as he dragged Johann's limp body away from the flaming car. He found Johann's energy gun and slipped it into the empty holster on his thigh then reached into one of the compartments on his gauntlet and pulled out a black scale. He tucked it into Johann's mangled hand and made his way to the discarded motorcycle. He sat on it, revelling in its power as he revved the engine.

'Think of this as compensation for shooting me, and just generally being a bastard.' The demon told the unconscious Johann before speeding down the street as the sun's light began to displace the sky's purple hue. By the time he was out of sight, the police finally arrived at the scene.


	2. Chapter 1

**_Chapter 1: Blind_**

Bloodshot eyes stared into the darkness. Darkness, that's all his eyes will ever see – nothing more, nothing less; not that he was complaining, he's learned to live with it. He's managed to adapt.

It's all ironic really. There's so much that humans don't see: the ultraviolet spectrum, infrared radiation, X-Rays. Yet, even knowing this, our brains continue to persist that what we see is what exists. Eyes blind. Harper's not blind.

Harper rolled off his bed with a grunt. He hissed a curse as his body slammed into the wooden flooring, refusing to follow the orders he gave it. The shock of the fall helped to shift some of the haziness of sleep and once the fog began to thin out, tangible thoughts developed. The first thing to surface in his brain was the temptation to climb back in bed; it was borderline unbearable. With effort, Harper managed to shove the incentive away and sit up. Pain flared in his shoulder. He interdicted the cry that threatened to escape through his lips, wincing as he reached around to check the stitches in his shoulder; they held. Good. The last thing he wanted to wake up to was popped stitches. He ran a careful hand through the auburn hairs strewn across his head and gave a short yawn. This time, cautious as to not aggravate the wound on his shoulder, he gently pulled himself to his feet and dragged the sack of meat and bones, that was his body, to the bathroom, splashing water over his face to alleviate the remaining tiredness that tormented him.

As his calloused fingers rested on his damp skin he took a moment to map out the various nuances of his appearance: the faint scarring around his eyes, the high cheekbones, his sharp chin, the overall angular features that gave hint to a Nordic background. A hiss escaped his lips as a stray finger brushed his split lip. He imagined his skin to be pale, just as his mother's was, and the freckles that were once sprinkled over the bridge of his nose to be faded to virtually nothing. His brain compiled this information into a single, vivid mental image, a face – his face.

Harper sniffed the air then blanched; an offensive smell burned at his nostrils and seared his lungs. What was that? He rose his arm and winced as he identified the malodour's source. It was definitely time for a shower. He stripped, climbed into the shower and twisted the knob clockwise, prompting a downpour of ice-cold water. He relished in the blissful numbing power the water had and the temporary ease it offered his aching body. The skin around his scars tightened and his hand instinctively rose to settle on a large white scar that ran across his chest diagonally. Every mark on his body told a story, or so his ex-girlfriend used to say. Despite his attempt at diverting his thoughts, they continued to linger on her; that intoxicating smile of hers haunting his thoughts once again as he recalled the way she used to run her fingers across the scars, the way she used to trace circles on his skin until her touch was seared into his mind, the way she. . . Harper shook his head.

A short while later, Harper padded out of the bathroom with a contemplative frown. One of his hands trailed against the bare brick walls as he entered the living room. His thoughts abruptly became trained his father; a minimalist who had seen the beauty in the rawness of such things. As a child, Harper had found it ugly, but now, he finally saw it, or felt it: the beauty in imperfection and asymmetry. That likely explained why he loved the shithole that was Helheim's Kitchen - the worst city in the entire archipelago. His city. Close by, something scraped across the floor. Harper snapped towards the sound, eyes narrowing in the direction of the disruption.

'Toothless!' He called. A small grunt sounded from behind the couch and a pitch black Bay Retriever trotted to him, tail wagging excitedly. Harper's brows lowered. 'What did you do?'

The dog yipped then placed down a pale-green shirt that was stained a shade darker by saliva. Harper reached down to pick it up, his face contorting in disgust as his fingers pressed against the wet fabric.

'Thanks bud, but I prefer my clothes not soaked in dog slobber.' He stated, setting the shirt aside. 'You hungry?' He asked as he entered the kitchen and began rummaging through the cupboards for dog food. Toothless barked. With a smile, he poured the processed meat chunks into a bowl for Toothless to eat.

'Today's the day,' Harper stated out of the blue as he tucked into his own food – a dreary bowl of oatmeal with about as much flavour as the streets of Helheim's kitchen. The dog glanced up from his bowl briefly, giving the man a questioning glance. 'Fishlegs and I are opening our law firm, remember? I told you this before.' He continued as though he was answering the dog's unspoken question. 'Think about it bud, I don't have to wait 'til night to help change the city for the better.' A small smile slithered onto his features as he sat, revelling in the moment. 'Harper Haddock doesn't have to be the mask anymore.'

Despite his inability to see through his eyes, his forest green pupils still found their way to the oatmeal. Another spoonful entered his mouth, though abruptly fell out when his phone began to vibrate. A synthetic voice announced that it was Franklin, or as he called him: Fishlegs, his best friend. With practised ease, he guided his thumb to the accept button.

'Hey 'legs,' he greeted, prodding at his breakfast. 'What's going on?'

' _Oh, so you are alive.'_ His friend exclaimed. _'Dude, were you ignoring my calls yesterday?'_

'Nah,' Harper sighed. 'I was busy.'

' _Ah, it was one of those days then?'_ Franklin asked.

Harper could hear the frown in his friend's voice; he spooned some more oatmeal into his mouth, mulling over ways to prevent this conversation from going down the usual course. 'I was thinking that I'll leave early.' He said, redirecting the conversation. 'Maybe then, I'll only be a little late.'

Franklin chuckled. _'Don't bother. I'm coming to pick you up.'_

'Oh?'

' _Yeah, knowing you, you_ ' _d decide to stop a few muggings on your journey to the firm. A reliable source, called common sense, told me that people don't like bloody, disgruntled lawyers.'_

'Yeah? Well, common sense in Helheim's kitchen also says that alcohol should be three-quarters of the average man's diet.'

' _Touche.'_ The loud chatter in the background of Franklin's side of the call silenced to barely audible mumbles at the sound of a car door slamming shut. _'I'll be there in fifteen, Hiccup. Be ready.'_

'Will do.'

With that, the line went dead. Harper scarfed down the rest of his breakfast then scowling, turned to face the slobbery shirt he had discarded on the sofa and for the second time said, 'Thank you,' sarcasm evident in his tone while addressing the seemingly amused dog. Toothless watched him with something close to a grin on his lupine features _._

Harper pulled on the shirt and the rest of the clothes he had set out yesterday. The smart jacket and tie hid the majority of the wet patches _,_ though he grimaced in discomfort with every move made, both in pain and disgust. As promised, Franklin knocked on the door fifteen minutes later. Harper opened it, smiling at his friend's attire. As opposed to his usual baggy casual wear he wore a smart navy blue suit. Harper suddenly understood why his friend usually wore loose fitting clothes. His blazer seemed to be waging war against his gut, the buttons straining to perform their duty. Harper smirked. A blind man such as himself shouldn't be noticing such things.

Franklin stared at Harper for a moment, performing an analysis of his own. 'You look like shit.' He concluded.

'I feel like shit too.' Harper sighed as his friend bent down to pet Toothless. 'You shouldn't be petting my guide dog.'

Franklin snorted. 'Guide dog? You guide him more than he does you.'

Harper stepped out of his apartment. The door closed behind him with a soft click. 'Yeah, but nobody else knows that.' His lips quirked up in a smile as Toothless began weaving between Franklin's legs while they approached the exit to the apartment complex, nearly tripping him a few times. 'I don't think he appreciated your comment.'

'Okay, Toothless, I get it.' Franklin sighed. Toothless tripped Franklin one more time. Satisfied, the dog followed the pair into the car, sprawling across the seats in the vehicle's back. Harper settled in after him, his aching leg finally finding relief as he relaxed into the overly-plush upholstery. Soon, he found the car's comfort tearing a yawn from his mouth.

Franklin rose an eyebrow, his rotund face donning a frown. 'Exactly how long did you stay up for this extracurricular hobby of yours?'

''Til dawn.'

Franklin glared at Harper.

'What?'

'Hiccup, I'm-'

'Worried about me.' Harper finished. 'So you tell me, every single time we meet.'

'With reason.' Franklin snapped back, he held the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip. 'You rarely come back from your. . . night job without injury. You're lucky, always have been, but every time you go out there, the likelihood of your next injury being fatal increases. Sooner or later that luck will run out.'

 _Of course Fishlegs would consider this all logically._ 'That's where you're wrong, Fish. I'm not lucky, I'm skilled.'

'Are _you_ skilled or is the _demon_?' At Harper's confused expression Franklin decided to continue. 'When you put on that armour you become someone else,' Franklin hesitated. 'Someone that completely disregards danger in its entirety. It's like you don't feel fear.'

Harper's brows lowered. 'You say that like it's a bad thing.'

'Humans experience fear for a reason, Hic. It protects us.'

'Well the last time I let fear control me, I was blinded and got an inch long shard of metal lodged in my head.'

Franklin frowned and turned to stare at his best friend. Harper somehow met the gaze, his dulled green eyes revealing nothing. A car honked its horn in the distance and without missing a beat, Harper reached out and grabbed the steering wheel, turning the car out of the way of a collision. Franklin smiled and Harper found that it was his time to frown.

'Blind, huh?' The large man asked. 'Harper,' Franklin began, his use of his friend's real name feeling foreign on his tongue. 'You should know by now that the blind card stopped working on me a long time ago.'

 _Damn._ Harper remained silent for the rest of the journey; he was used to having these conversations with Franklin but this time it was different. There was a weight to the man's words that Harper hadn't anticipated. A few minutes later the car pulled into a space in front of a single floored building composed of the usual dirt brown bricks found in the city. It was painfully average; the only distinguishing part of the building was the worn sign of the business that had once owned the building plastered high on its walls. The windows were boarded and the door hung lopsided on its hinges. Harper stepped out of the car and onto the sidewalk. With two clicks, he assembled his cane. He stood still for a moment, hands ringing the cane's handle.

Breaking him from his reverie, Harper's heavyset friend dragged him into what would be their law firm. Franklin held an evident perk in his steps, his blonde hair bouncing and his blue eyes darting around the room as though this wasn't his sixth time seeing it. _He seems to have gotten over our conversation_. Toothless released a chain of sneezes, the dust around him moving away in bursts with each one.

'This building isn't much now but it'll be enough until we get our big break. I mean, all great heroes start from humble beginnings, right?' Franklin asked. 'We'll fix this place up and within a year we'll have our own television commercials: Haddock and Ingerman . . . attorneys at law.'

Harper shook his head. 'Ingerman and Haddock sounds better.' He corrected.

Franklin smiled and a tension Harper hadn't been aware was there seemed to slip away. 'Thanks, man, that means a lot.' He settled into a swivel chair with a satisfied grin. Dust exploded into a cloud around him though the stout man stubbornly refused to acknowledge it. 'Now, all we need is a secretary, then we'll be a real firm.'

Harper snorted. 'What will we pay the secretary with? Friendship? The amount we spent on this building barely left us enough money to look after ourselves, let alone to pay a secretary at minimum wage.'

'Enough money yet.' Franklin corrected. 'And speaking of secretaries, I came across a particularly interesting story about one the other day.'

Harper leaned forward. He had no doubt that Franklin had purposely led the conversation down this route. 'A case? Already?' He asked.

The chubby man nodded enthusiastically. 'Murder. A secretary working for a big shot company apparently killed her co-worker. I'm sure she'd be willing to pay some big bucks for a lawyer, or two.'

'She doesn't have one already?'

'No,'

Harper let the reply hang in the air as he attempted to read this friend of his. They'd agreed to stay away from homicides and yet, here Franklin was, suggesting a homicide case to start off their careers. He opened his mouth. 'How do you know all of this?' He intended to say. Franklin, however, didn't intend on letting him speak.

'I called Mala to congratulate her on her promotion to police commissioner. I may or may not have gotten some extra information in the process.' Franklin cut in, looking rather proud of himself.

'Mala? What else did she say?' He knew the woman well. She was tall, deceptively thin and had a disdain for giving away incomplete chunks of information. For her, answers had only two forms: a full-blown essay, or nothing at all.

'She said that it's all shady. There's definitive evidence against the secretary; way too much to seem plausible. Not just that, nobody wants to take the case. She thinks the secretary is a scapegoat for the business' shadier work.'

'This suspect wouldn't happen to already have any criminal charges, would she? Assault or anything?'

'The worst thing she's done is rear-end a car in traffic.' Franklin stated. 'Hel, I don't think she's guilty, Hiccup. And win or lose, we still get publicity.' He pinned that last bit about publicity on in hopes of removing any of Harper's lingering doubts. Unfortunately for him, Harper didn't care about publicity. Franklin seemed to have remembered that such tactics didn't work on his friend as he immediately pulled out his golden gun. 'And Mala said that she has a gut feeling.'

Harper shook his head, his doubts withering to nothingness. 'You could've just started with that, you know?'

Franklin smiled and pulled his phone from his pocket. 'Let me call Mala in advance, she'll want to be there when we arrive.'

And so Franklin did, telling Mala to expect them in thirty minutes. Punctuality was something the man treasured so after ending the call, he practically dragged his friend out of the building. Toothless was having none of it and refused to move from the beaten chair he had curled up in. They left him behind. When they finally arrived at the precinct Harper entered first, Franklin trailed in after him, blowing into his cupped hands.

Upon seeing them, Mala marched to the pair; her short, platinum blonde hair swayed atop her head, an active reminder of her time served in the Berkian military. She was in her mid-thirties and had impossibly smooth skin that seemed to belong to a model rather than a war-hardened cop. But Harper knew that despite her slight build and soft features she was not someone to be toyed with; he'd witnessed her take down every police officer in the precinct one by one during a training exercise. Hel, she was the one to drag his bloodied body to safety on judgement day. After knowing her for so long and witnessing her in action, a part of him wondered if she was, unknowingly, some sort of minor Odinborn.

Mala stopped a metre away from them, her steely gaze soaking up their forms. Harper immediately noticed that her usually impassive face was thrown off by a foreign object just above her chin. A smile. A feint one but a smile nonetheless.

'It is a pleasure to see you, boys, again.' She almost beamed.

Franklin furrowed his brows. 'Your face, it's. . .' He trailed off, unsure of how to finish the sentence without being beaten to a pulp.

She turned her gaze to him. 'It is what?'

'Smiling.'

She nodded as if that was in any way a normal statement. 'It is only my first week as commissioner and we have already caught that bastard, The Trader. Morale is high.' She explained.

So that's why she marched to them rather than stalking to them like she usually did: she was happy. That also helped to somewhat alleviate the suspicion Harper had about her being replaced with an imposter.

'I found him in a car wreck.' She continued. Her smile slipped away and she dawned a contemplative expression. Harper finally felt that he could breathe easy. 'There was an imitation dragon scale in his hand. The work of that damned demon, I suspect.'

Franklin grimaced and glanced up at Harper, who seemed to be suppressing a smile. 'Come now, don't sell yourself short. I'm sure that, had the opportunity arisen, you would've caught him yourself.' Harper said, and he meant it. That's why he had to get to Johann before she got a whiff of his presence in the city.

Mala smiled again. 'I know.' She said, taking hold of Harper's arm and guiding him through the precinct. Franklin followed closely behind, his wide frame putting him at a disadvantage when following them through the bustling building. 'I would be lying if I said that I was not surprised you accepted this case, I thought that both of you agreed not to do homicides.'

'We did.' Franklin confirmed. 'But when you said that your gut was telling you something was wrong, I just knew we had to check this out.'

'Your gut's never wrong.' Harper added. Not that he needed to.

'Gut feeling or no, it is evident that something is amiss.' Mala sighed, her steely gaze momentarily flickering over the lawyers. She paused and lowering her voice to a whisper said, 'The new district attorney has been trying to get to this girl for a while. I managed to get an extension on how long I can hold her without charging her, but I suspect that even then, we are running out of time. Get her out. I will help how I can.'

'This suspect, what's her name?' Harper asked.

'Heather Oswaldson.' Mala stated curtly as she pushed the door to the interrogation room open, gesturing for the men to step in.

Franklin was the first to enter. He lowered his husky body into a chair, the metal seat creaking a complaint as he settled in. Before Harper could enter behind the man, Mala caught his arm again. She was silent for a moment, as if unsure of herself. 'Your father would be proud if he were here to see you now.'

Harper blinked. 'Th-thank you.' He had not expected that. 'He'd be proud of you too. He always did want you to be his successor.'

Mala smiled. She apparently didn't catch on to the bitter undertone Harper unintentionally put into the words. The truth of the matter was that his father was cold and distant, and more of a father to Mala than he had ever been to Harper. He still appreciated the gesture though.

After a few seconds of awkward silence, he finally entered the interrogation room and took the seat beside Franklin, folding his cane and placing it in his jacket pocket. The woman across from them, Heather Oswaldson, flinched as the door slammed shut behind him. She looked young, perhaps mid-twenties, and so pale that the whites of her eyes were barely distinguishable from her skin. The only colour on her face came in the form of her bright green eyes and an angry looking lump purchased at the very corner of her forehead. Her jet-black hair shook as she looked the pair of lawyers up and down.

'Who are you?' She sniffled. She didn't vocalise any distrust but her tone was wary of the pair. Apparently, she wasn't expecting help anytime soon. Harper's interest was piqued. What had this woman been through?

'Two lawyers willing to represent you.' Answered Franklin, unbuttoning his jacket. A sweat patch was already blooming on his chest.

'But I don't have any money. I-I haven't even got my first check yet.' She stated, wringing her hands. Franklin fell silent, disappointed.

'You're new to the city, miss Oswaldson?' Harper asked.

She gave a feeble nod. 'I moved here for my new job: secretary to the head accountant of a construction company. I was supposed to be earning twice as much as what I was getting before.' She added, as if needing to explain why. A bitter, broken laugh slipped from between her lips. 'I guess that's not happening now.'

Franklin pulled out his notebook and began writing. 'Uh-huh. . . may I ask which construction company?'

'Berkian construction Ltd.' She hissed, venom flaring up in her words.

Harper leaned forwards, curiosity burning inside of him. 'Start from the beginning, miss Oswaldson. What happened?'

Heather slumped in her chair. The cuffs that secured her to the table rattled as she attempted to wipe at her watering eyes. 'I was sent an anonymous email on Tuesday. . .'

 _Heather stared at the email curiously. Her brows lowered as she read the email's subject, it stated: Berkian construction's pension. She bit her lip. It was addressed to her boss but she still allowed her cursor to hover over the file. 'I shouldn't . . .' She told herself, but the temptation gnawed away at her resolve. After searching the room for any prying eyes and finding none, she opened it. Heather wasn't an accountant but she was smart enough to immediately realise that these numbers weren't about pensions. The data showed figures with so many zeroes that Heather began to feel nauseous. Bile rose to the back of her throat as she delved deeper; millions of dollars were being skimmed from profits every month and thousands of people were being exploited out of their money. Her eyes narrowed further when she also noticed that money was being pumped into the company from an anonymous source. Was this some sort of illegal shell corporation? She inserted her thumb drive into the computer and saved a copy of the data. After making sure nobody was watching her again, she slipped it into her bra._

' _Oswaldson.' An accented voice called._

 _Heather nearly screamed in fear. She felt her chest constrict as panic flared through her body. That voice, it belonged to the CEO of the company, Eret Eretson! Had he been watching her all along? Was he here to drag her away? 'H-hello, sir.' She stuttered as she scrambled to close the email._

 _He rose a single brow. 'Sir?' He repeated, moving from behind her to settle on her desk. 'I thought you hated formalities.' He set a coffee down in front of her, briefly glancing at her computer's blank screen.'_

' _Sorry, you just. . . caught me by surprise.' She stated._

 _Eret nodded slowly. 'Uh-huh. . . Well, I came to borrow you from accounting again. We have an important meeting later this week and I need a few extra hands.'  
_

' _Sure.' She surprised herself by mustering a weak smile._

 _Eret leaned closer to her so that his lips brushed against her ear and whispered, 'I shouldn't really be telling you this, but sometimes when I'm bored, I play Minesweeper too.'_

 _Heather's eyes widened. She glanced at her screen to find that the cursor now hovered over the application._

 _Eret patted her on the shoulder then sauntered away._

 _She watched the man go. Could he, of all people, really have a hand in this company's illegal dealings. She brought the email up again and glared at the data. The data, nothing but numbers and false names, glared back. She would get to the bottom of this if it was the last thing she did._

'So what did you do next?' Harper asked.

She shuddered and her eyes glazed over as she recalled the memories. 'There was a guy I knew. Gustav. I brought a copy of the data to him.'

'Why him?'

'He worked at Berkian construction Ltd too - in the legal department. I thought that if there was anybody that could help me, it was him.'

'Wait, this Gustav. . . is he the man you killed- I mean, the man they say you killed?' Franklin asked.

Harper winced. Heather recoiled as if she had just been slapped in the face. 'I didn't kill him, he was one of the only people I knew and . . . and . . .' Her words trailed off into sobs. 'You probably don't believe me. Hel, I'm not sure that I believe me.' She fell silent and for a brief period of time stared at her cuffed hands.

Harper had to actively fight the temptation to glare at his friend. At Franklin's statement, her heart rate flared, becoming dangerously erratic, any worse and she could have literally had a heart attack. 'I believe you.' He suddenly spoke up.

'Y-you do?' She asked. Her heart began to slow.

'Yes.' Harper replied. 'But you need to tell us what else happened. We need the full story.'

She gave a small nod, twiddling her fingers anxiously. 'The next day I met Gustav at a bar. . .'

 _Gustav glanced at his laptop screen one more time. 'I knew something fishy was going on but I never expected this. This is, like, fraud on a huge scale.' He drew his hands out wildly to emphasise his words._

 _Heather ducked just in time to avoid one of his hands slapping her in the face. 'Do you think I should bring it to the police?' She asked, disgruntled._

' _Are you nuts?' He hissed, pausing to take a swig of his drink. 'The BPD are crooked as hel, they'd probably just get paid off.'_

' _So what do I do?' She asked, cradling her own drink._

 _Gustav smiled widely. 'Nothing. Let me handle it. This is kinda my forte.'_

 _Heather lowered her brows. 'Are you sure?'_

' _Yup, I got this, babe.' He stood up, throwing a few coins - not nearly enough to pay for all of his drinks - on the table. 'I'll see you later.'_

Harper blinked, a single brow raised expectantly. 'That's it?'

Heather nodded. 'I didn't hear anything from him for another week, not until- until. . .'

'Take your time.' Franklin said as he furiously scribbled notes into his book. Harper wasn't sure if the man said that out of concern or if it was because he was struggling to keep up with the speed she told her tale.

Heather let out a long, shaky exhale. 'I got a message from Gustav telling me to meet him at his house.'

'And did you?'

She nodded, looking pained as she did. Franklin placed his notebook down, apparently sensing the shift in the room's atmosphere. 'When I got there the door to his apartment was open. I thought that maybe- maybe he was drunk and forgot to close the door, so I went in.'

 _Heather entered the room slowly, navigating through the dimly lit room cautiously, at least until she felt_ _a sudden prick in her neck. She jerked away in surprise, clapping a single hand on her neck._

' _Oswaldson,' A voice purred. From the shadows, Eret emerged, tucking a small syringe into a plastic wallet_

 _Heather bleary mindedly spun to face him but even as she stopped, her vision continued to spin, causing bile to rise to the back of her throat.  
_

' _Why couldn't you just let it go?' He asked, frowning._

 _Her legs gave out from beneath her, her consciousness waded. 'You . . . You . . . bastard.' Was all she managed to get out. At this point, her voice was barely a whisper._

 _Eret chuckled. 'If only I got a nickel for every time somebody said that.'_

'Claiming your boss drugged you is a serious accusation.' Franklin highlighted as he scribbled more notes into his book.

'But it did happen.'

'You say that he injected your neck?' Harper asked.

She gave a subtle nod.

'She just nodded.' Franklin stated.

Harper scratched his stubble in thought. 'Maybe you should tell us what happens next, there might be something else substantial in that.'

Heather tapped her fingers against the metal table. Her eyes welled with tears as she thought of her next words. 'I woke up in the apartment sometime later. It was dark and I couldn't quite remember what happened but I knew something was wrong . . .'

 _Heather's eyes shot open. She leapt to her feet as though she had just had the worst nightmare, but could remember no dream. Her neck ached and she felt sticky but she paid that no attention as she attempted to make sense of her situation._

' _Eret . . .' She breathed, as it began to come back to her. 'Gustav!' She had to call Gustav, find out where he is._

 _Wincing through the dark, she launched across the room to get to the phone mounted on the wall but tumbled over a dead weight that blocked her path; a shriek fell from her lips as her head slammed into a wall and pain exploded from her forehead, coursing through her skull like a raging inferno._

' _Fuck,' she cursed, raising a hand to feel the pained spot and drawing back her fingers wet with blood. 'Shit,' Heather cursed again. She wiped the blood on her sleeve then persisted through the dark, feeling across the wall for the light switch and succeeding. She let out a bitter laugh of victory as she snapped the light on, turning around to see what she tripped over. Her eyes widened._

 _Before her laid Gustav, his body partially submerged in a crimson patch of blood that covered half of the carpet. His bloodshot eyes were wide open and shocked. Heather fell to her knees, a single trembling hand covering her agape mouth, and her eyes erratically looking over the stab wounds that peppered his stomach; chunks of intestine clambered out of the broken flesh like worms seeping through blood-soaked dirt._

 _There was a jagged, twelve-inch knife on the floor by Gustav's right foot. She picked it up. Is this what the murderer used to kill him?_

' _Oh Gods,' Heather whispered as the reality of the situation finally sunk in. What was happening, did he die because of her? Then it hit her like a truck. Eret. He did this. He was a thief and a murderer._

 _She curled into a ball beside Gustav, her chest convulsing as she choked out a dry sob._

 _Sirens screamed in the distance, wailing louder and louder as the BPD grew closer to her apartment. Blue and red lights flashed through her windows, momentarily snapping her from her stupor and giving her a chance to realise that she was soaked in her co-worker's blood and holding the likely murder weapon._

 _The lights shut off and the door slammed open. Heather's teary gaze snapped away from the knife in her hand to the pair of costumed vigilantes standing in her doorway. They were both dressed in army green but in the room's lighting, they may as well have been looming shadows. In an instant, their guns became trained on Heather. She rose her arms in submission, not wanting to give them a reason to shoot._

' _Drop the weapon and move away from the body!' One of the vigilantes barked at her, their modulated voice ringing in her ears even after they finished speaking._

' _It wasn't me!' she sobbed, her whole body trembling as she complied with the instructions. 'I swear, I didn't do it!'_

' _Right,' The other vigilante drawled. 'And I didn't kick my brother in the balls at least ten times today.' They added sarcastically as they cuffed her hands roughly. After securing her, both of them began to guide her out of the apartment._

' _It wasn't me!' She screamed again, though neither of them listened as they dragged her to the police waiting outside._

'Two vigilantes?' Harper asked, leaning forward in his chair.

'Yes.' She sniffled.

'And they were working with the police?' Harper asked, frowning. Mala hates vigilantes. Franklin glanced at Harper, he appeared confused too.

'Yeah.'

'Uh, Miss Oswaldson?' Franklin interjected. 'If this Eret was willing to go to the lengths of killing Gustav then why didn't he kill you too, seeing how you uncovered the whole scandal in the first place?'

'I-I don't know. Maybe he wants me to suffer.' She suggested.

Harper rose an eyebrow. That didn't seem right. He didn't voice that thought though. 'I can confidently speak for both my friend and I when I say that this is a, well, complicated case, but I'm still willing to take it on.' Harper stated.

'As am I,' added Franklin. 'We'll do what it takes to get you out of this whole. . . debacle.' He watched Heather's face for a moment. 'You look shocked.'

'I-I don't know what to say. . . Thank you.' Heather fumbled. The word 'shocked' couldn't do justice for what she was feeling right now. The story sounded crazy, even to her.

Franklin glanced at his watch, then hauled himself up and helped Harper to his feet as well. 'It's time that we get going.'

'We'll be sure to update you with any progress we make.' Harper added as he was led out of the room.

* * *

'Fascinating.' Mala stated, after being briefed on Heather's story. 'So she was framed, as I suspected.'

Harper sat at the other side of the room spinning in his chair while Franklin paced around. 'There was never a doubt about that, Mala. The issue is how we prove the evidence being used against her was falsified.'

Franklin stopped in front of him. 'What I don't get is if they murdered her co-worker, then why frame her? Why didn't they just kill her when they first had a chance, I mean wouldn't it be easier?'

'Because killing her wasn't their top priority in all of this. The likelihood is that this was all orchestrated to send a message to a third party.' Mala stated. 'I imagine that they saw Gustav as the larger threat so they disposed of him and not Heather.'

Both men nodded. That made sense.

'Say, Mala,' Harper began, 'Heather said that she was arrested by a pair of vigilantes working with the police. That couldn't be right, could it?'

' _Those pests_ ,' Mala spat, 'Are not working with us. They have been showing up to crime scenes just before my officers and messing everything up. That was only their second reported appearance and I already miss the days when the demon was the only vigilante in the city.'

'Any Idea who they are?' Franklin asked.

'No. I only know two things about them: they are brother and sister, and they are well funded - their equipment is beyond anything I have ever seen.'

'Do you think they could have some sort of involvement in this?' Harper asked.

Mala pursed her lips then after a moment of silence, shook her head no.

'Right now, I only see one way to prove Heather's story.' Franklin sighed. He flipped through his notebook and underlined a word then turned it so that Mala could see.

Harper frowned. 'What?'

'We find the thumb drive.' Mala stated.


End file.
